


Biting Steel

by gwennolmarie



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Bonding, Cooking, Fishing, Fluff, Guitars, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Rare Pairings, Rarepair, Rating May Change, Singing, Slow Build, Slow Burn, cause that's fun, excuse my mediocre spanish, plz
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-02 10:20:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17262488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwennolmarie/pseuds/gwennolmarie
Summary: Arthur is finding out... Javier is a man of many talents.





	1. Limes?

Javier hasn’t been with them long.

The kid mostly sticks to himself.

Arthur thinks it’s cause he’s not the most fluent in English.

Dutch and Hosea had been helping him fill in the blanks.

Still, though, when the younger man spoke it was tentative.

It didn’t help that he was still settling into the gang, likely in the same, or a similar, state to how Arthur had felt when he was first picked up.

Disbelief, feeling a little like you were in a fairytale.

Saved by outlaws.

Dutch was good to his gang.

Was quick to have you clothed, fed and with a warm bed to sleep in.

Javier managed to leave with a small purse and come back with several fine looking outfits that made Arthur frown down at his own lackluster denim pants and cotton shirt.

\--

  
The kid could cook too.

The gang’s last cook had come and gone. So the remaining members were left to the basic skills they had.

Dutch and Hosea stayed out of it, though Hosea occasionally supplied herbs to add flavor to otherwise bland fish and potatoes.

Abigail didn’t know much about cooking, and couldn’t really read the recipes.

She could fry a mean egg, but Arthur tended to redirect her, let her use her time to take care of baby Jack.

One night Hosea, Dutch, and Arthur came back from a moderately prosperous heist, and Javier was manning the crock over the fire.

Arthur dismounted, untacked and changed out of his dusty, slightly bloody clothes, before walking up behind Javier and peering over the younger man’s shoulder.

“Whatcha cookin’?” Arthur asks.

Javier jumps to the side, brandishing the spoon like a knife and flinging hot broth onto Arthur’s bare arms.

“Hey!” Arthur scowls as the pinpricks of heat settle into his skin.

He roughly wipes off his arms and levels Javier with an unimpressed stare.

“Ah,” Javier places the spoon back in the pot, “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Arthur grumbles and steps closer, causing Javier to step back.

The older man frowns at that but leans over to smell the contents, it looks like a soup.

It was nice, bright and citrusy, with a hint of deeper spices.

“What,” Arthur stands back up and gestures to the soup, “Is that?”

“Oh… Uh, Sopa de Lima… Kinda,” Javier shrugs, inches a little closer to stir.

“Limes?” Arthur asks.

“Sí,” Javier nods, lifts the spoon for Arthur to taste.

Arthur steadies it with one hand but doesn’t take it, blows then sips the hot liquid delicately.

“Hm?” Arthur pulls back, lets go and licks his lips, chasing the salty, tangy flavors.

“Do you like it?” Javier asks, wiping off the spoon before returning it to the pot.

The action makes Arthur quirk a smile, amused.

“S’pretty good,” The older man indulges, “Never had nothin’ like it.”

“It’s not as good as the stuff in Méjico,” Javier pouts slightly, “You lack the… uh,” Javier takes a moment to search for the right word.

Arthur doesn’t mind.

“Authentic,” The younger man concludes, “Spices.”

“When’ll it be done?” Arthur asks.

Almost itching for another taste.

“Ah,” Javier squints up at the sun, where it hangs halfway to the horizon, “An hour?”

“Okay,” Arthur says.

Lays a heavy hand on Javier’s shoulder and squeezes gently, the younger man blinks up at him.

“Lookin’ forward to it,” Arthur says, smiles, then retreats to his tent.

Doesn’t see Javier rubbing at the spot Arthur had touched, a furrow in his brows.

\--

Though Arthur didn’t have any doubts after his first bite…

He was still surprised at just how good the soup was.

It was fresh and bright, warm in more than one way. Left him pleasantly full and absolutely satisfied.

Javier sat next to him on the log.

“That was real good, Javi,” Arthur said as he leaned in to stack his bowl.

The gang echoed their praise.

Javier ducked his head, briefly, before glancing around.

His eyes lingered on Arthur, who had settled on the log, legs spread and leaning back on both hands.

Basking in the warmth and watching the colors change.

It got dark so early, this time of year.

Javier wasn’t sure how long he stared.

\--

Arthur was whittling away at a little block of wood, squinting in the moonlight, when Javier came back to camp.

Guitar strapped to his back.

Arthur cocked his head to one side as the younger man came to sit near him.

Instead of at the big fire, with everyone else.

“Here to serenade me?” Arthur teased.

Javier huffed in response and began fiddling with the tuning keys, plucking strings and squinting until he hummed, satisfied with his work.

The younger man wiggles his fingers then begins a soft melody.

_He rides alone, into la noche,_  
_Weaves through the trees like un broche._

_Un forajido, Un forajido._

_He rides, head high like un Rey,_  
_He’s always running from la ley._

_Un forajido, Un forajido._

_Hides behind a wall with un ceño,_  
_But keeps to himself, he is el extraño._

_Un forajido, Un forajido._

  
Arthur stays quiet the whole time, a bit mesmerized by Javier’s voice and skilled fingers.

Arthur glances between the fingers where they pick and strum and the peaceful look on the younger man’s face.

The notes grow softer and softer until Javier stops, resting his wrists on the body of the guitar where it sits in his lap.

“Yer a man o’ many talents, Javi,” Arthur says softly.

Finds himself focusing a little too hard on how clean Javier’s nails are.

The younger ducks his head and has the smallest smile on his face, his hair, loose for once, hiding it from Arthur’s view.

 


	2. Dragonflies

It’s getting warmer and the river, just beyond the imaginary line that ends their camp, is starting to rise with the run-off from the mountains.

Arthur’s warmed up enough that he forgoes his coat, folding it and tucking it into his trunk.

Hopes he won’t need it again for a long while.

He heads to the bubbling pot of oats and thanks the heavens that their new cook, a veteran named Pearson, isn’t half-bad.

Though it’s hard to make oats anything more than tolerable.

He spoons some into a bowl, anyway, and starts making his way through the camp with the steam floating back against his face.

He heads to the cliff that overlooks the river in the valley.

It’s all churning mud.

Red like rust.

He hears quiet footsteps come to a stop, next to him.

Javier makes a similar, smaller image.

Bowl cradled in both hands to keep them warm while the sun makes its way up over the horizon.

“Mornin’,” Arthur says, hoarse.

Clears his throat and takes a bite.

“Good morning,” Javier says, voice much clearer than Arthur’s but also much quieter.

The younger man stares down at the valley, eyes scanning left and right.

Searching.

“You see somethin’?” Arthur asks.

Javier glances at him briefly then tilts his head in consideration.

“I want to go fishing,” The younger says.

“Now, I ain’t much of a fisherman but even I know this ain’t the right… That these ain’t the right conditions,” Arthur says between bites.

Javier huffs a small, amused sound.

“That is what the _amateurs_ think,” Javier says coyly.

Arthur tries to fight his lips from smiling.

It’s a losing battle.

Hosea had beaten him the other day at the cards table.

Had teased Arthur by calling him an amateur.

Arthur had remembered Javier perking up curiously behind his hand of cards.

Now he knew why.

“You’re just growin’ your vocabulary to insult me,” Arthur accuses.

He feels light.

Lightest he’s felt since John left.

“It’s a benefit,” Javier says, looking a bit proud of himself.

Arthur loses the battle, laughs softly.

Hears Javier chuckling with him.

“You really gonna go fish that?” Arthur asks with a jerk of his spoon towards the river.

Javier moves a little closer, turns so that his chest is a few inches from Arthur’s shoulder.

Arthur follows the younger man’s extended finger, pointing just below the horizon.

“The river? It’s not as bad, further out.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Arthur shrugs.

Javier’s hand tentatively pats his shoulder before the younger steps back.

“You want to come with me?” Javier asks, earnestly.

“Wouldn’t you rather have Hosea come? I’ll probably scare away the fishes.”

“You won’t scare the _fish_ ,” Javier says, amused, “I won’t let you.”

\--

It takes a good hour on horseback to make it to where the water isn’t as muddy and isn’t rushing quite as quick.

They hitch their horses and Javier perches at the newly-carved edge.

Arthur dawdles by Bo’ and watches as Javier puts the handle of the rod between his legs, holding it there so he can thread a worm onto the hook.

Arthur watches Javier cock the tip of the rod back and fling it forward.

Bait sailing in a clean line into the water.

Barely disturbing the surface.

It takes a minute for Javier to realize Arthur hasn’t joined him.

The younger man glances back with a confused furrow of his brows.

“Are you going to fish?” Javier asks.

“Think I might just take notes.”

“No, no,” Javier makes a commanding motion, pointing to the overhand next to the one he stands on.

Arthur hesitates and Javier points more emphatically.

The older man huffs, grabbing his rod and moving to the designated place.

He baits his hook as Javier reels his own in.

“What do you have? Your bait?” Javier asks, moving closer.

“Just some corn,” Arthur shrugs.

“These are trout, they eat live things,” Javier says and comes to stand next to Arthur, setting his own rod down and taking the hook right out of Arthur’s hands.

“I think there’re a few people who’d disagree with you,” Arthur murmurs, watching Javier pull another wriggling worm from a cloth pouch and carefully hooking it onto the barb, then bending the body back and reinforcing the bait’s chances of staying on the hook.

“Who? They’d be wrong,” Javier mutters.

“The ones that make them fancy looking lures. With feathers and fur and all that shit.”

“Ah,” Javier says wisely and lift his head when done threading the bait and holds it out to Arthur, “They are tricking the fish, though, the lures look like insects.”

“I ain’t never seen a purple insect,” Arthur protests and takes the hook back, frowning at the squirming critter.

“Haven’t you? Una libélula?”

“I… I don’t know what that means,” Arthur shrugs helplessly.

Javier purses his lips slightly.

“Can I use some paper? And a pencil?” Javier asks.

Arthur makes another shrugging motion and nods.

They abandon their rods on the grass.

Arthur digs his journal out of his pack and finds the pencil that always gets stuck in the lip of the bottom seam.

“Here,” Arthur says, handing the journal over.

Javier mutters his thanks and takes the leather-bound book carefully.

Arthur’s had some of the gang try and peek over his shoulders or sneakily lift the cover and glimpse inside.

He’s never felt so secure, handing it over.

Javier doesn’t even look tempted to read through it, just turns it over and parts the back pages.

He presses the journal against Bo’s saddle and scribbles for a few minutes.

At first, Arthur thinks it might be hopeless, that Javier might be good at many things but drawing ain’t one of them.

Then he’s proved wrong.

Javier’s seemingly shapeless shading is refined with clean lines and he doesn’t even have to finish the drawing.

“Dragonfly,” Arthur murmurs.

Javier tenses, upon realizing how Arthur is hovering behind him.

“That’s what they’re called here. Dragonflies,” Arthur says.

Javier turns around, in the gap between Arthur’s horse and Arthur himself.

He glances up at the older man and hands the journal back.

Arthur studies the incomplete drawing for a minute, then huffs, quietly and not-quite annoyed.

“Damn… You really are good at everythin’,” Arthur mutters.

Javier swallows, feeling uncertain, and slips from the space where he shouldn’t have felt trapped but did.

He gets his rod.

Hears Arthur putting away the journal before returning to the edge of the river.

Javier casts out.

They fish.

Javier catches dozens, only keeping the best of them.

Arthur catches a lot of small, but a few decent enough to make a meal.

The silence isn’t suffocating or deafening.

It’s not horrible.

And Javier isn’t sure if it’s just him, but suddenly?

It’s not as simple. 


	3. But This Isn't Mexico

“You wanna ride out with me?” Arthur asks as he pauses in front of the younger man, coming fresh from Dutch’s tent with new orders.

Javier looks up from the book that he’s marking in the margins.

One Hosea had given him, a common English story Javier thinks that he may have read in the Spanish version, as a child.

“Where?” Javier asks, but he’s already closing the book and moving to stand up.

“Got a couple o’ pretty nasty bounties to catch,” Arthur lifts a hand and rubs at his own scruffy jaw, “Dutch told me to take someone with me.”

“You wouldn’t rather take…” Javier cuts himself short.

John.

Arthur understands, rubs his jaw a little rougher then drops his hand, resting his thumb behind the thick leather of his belt.

“Even if he was here, I think you’ll be better for this,” Arthur mumbles.

There’s a heaviness that makes Javier wish he would’ve held his tongue.

He stands and they fall into line, shoulder-to-shoulder as they go their tents.

Together in the way back, the both of them preferring the quiet and cooler winds that swept up over the cliff-edge.

“Why me?” Javier asks, rubbing a thumb over the dented corner of the book’s cover.

“We won’t be able to use guns,” Arthur explains, “And you’re damn fine with a knife.”

Javier ducks his head and glances at the knife hanging from his chain, the other at his hip.

“How long will it take?” Javier asks.

“Mm… Day out to the camp to pick them up and take them into town, another day back?”

“Okay.”

They split ways, though only moving a handful of yards apart, to go into their tents and fill their packs.

Arthur’s quicker, not exactly what Javier would call ‘ _sloppy_ ’ but the older man definitely didn’t take the care with his possessions that Javier did.

Javier lost everything, once.

He does not intend to lose it all again.

Arthur waits for him, with Bo’ already packed and Boaz’ reins in his other hand.

Javier secures his packs quickly then swings up into the saddle.

Arthur follows suit.

The older man clicks his tongue at Bo’ and sets off.

Javier trailing closely behind.

\--

They make it to the wanted men’s camp and Arthur slides from Bo’.

Javier follows suit.

They don’t hitch, both trusting their horses to stay.

They might need to leave in a hurry, if this goes sour.

A dozen men, all Arthur’s size.

Javier isn’t worried.

This?

This sets a hot familiarity in his gut, though he wishes it was alien to him.

Arthur gestures him left, while the older man goes right.

Javier goes left.

The images of the three men wanted alive burn behind his pupils from the posters Arthur had shown him on the ride out.

\--

He’s efficient.

Had to be.

 _Has_ to be.

Works through the unimportant, blood up to his elbows by the time he gets to the the three men in the cabin.

He peers through the window and waits for Arthur.

Waits.

Waits.

Javier huffs, almost-silent, and crawls under the windowsill to the side of camp Arthur was supposed to be taking care of.

Arthur is in a two-way choke-out with another man, both of their faces purpling quickly.

Javier moves swiftly across the distance and gets his knife in the side of the man’s neck, perfectly between two of Arthur’s fingers.

“Move, Arthur,” Javier mutters and Arthur rolls away when the man’s hands relax in shock.

Javier digs the knife in and slices up, splitting the side of the man’s throat open.

Gaping and sloshing blood over the edge of the opening with each dying pump of the man’s heart.

Javier pulls his knife back and lets the man drop to the side.

A wet, clogged gasp and a dull thump.

Javier looks up to Arthur, who is now standing and much cleaner than Javier.

But Arthur had a brute strength in his holster where Javier had his knives.

“Thanks,” Arthur says, barely getting out the sounds as he rubs at his slow-bruising throat.

“Glad you brought me,” Javier mumbles back.

Arthur huffs, both self-deprecating and agreeing.

The older man’s hand reaches out and squeezes Javier’s wrist.

An act of genuine relief and gratitude.

Uncaring of the blood that coats his palm when he pulls away.

Javier swallows against flinching away.

Jerks his head back towards the house, instead.

The flank either side of the door, Arthur picking up two loose planks of wood on the way.

He pushes one into Javier’s hands before they part.

Arthur catches his eyes, doesn’t look away as he yells.

“‘Ey, Boss! Jacob?” Arthur calls, one hand cupped at the side of his mouth to push the sound of his voice further from the cabin.

“What?” One of the men, Jacob, calls back.

Arthur and Javier stay quiet.

Waiting.

There’s shuffling and muttering from within the cabin.

The door swings open and the man steps out.

Arthur and Javier nod at each other.

Javier kicks the door closed behind Jacob and then they both surge up, cracking down with the wood planks on either side of Jacob’s skull.

The man sways and crumples.

Arthur quickly moves the body to the side.

They flank the door again.

Waiting.

Ever-thankful for the stupidity of men.

Jim and Joseph follow suit.

Javier grapples Jim to the ground and uses the man’s own arm to choke him out.

Arthur body-checks Joseph and gets the man’s head to crack against the doorframe.

Once all three of the Quik brothers are slumped and hogtied on the ground the sons of Dutch rise.

Javier stalks to Boaz and gets a rag out, wets it from his canteen, tries to roughly wipe the blood off his arms and hands.

He’s shaking, and it’s hard to tell if it’s crashing adrenaline or the urge to dive back in.

To stab and slash until no one else stands in his way, until his people are _free_.

But this isn’t Mexico.

This is America, and these men are a different kind of evil.

Arthur disappears just to return with a third horse.

Grunting as he heaves one brother onto the back of each horse.

Javier is still roughly dragging the cloth between fingers, using the tip of another nail through the rag to try and get the red out of the cuticle of the other.

Arthur swings up into his saddle, holding the lead for the extra horse at his hip.

“You good?” Arthur asks.

“Of course,” Javier says, but the words ring hollow.

They ride into town.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have no self-control


	4. Equality?

Arthur keeps sending wary glances over his shoulder at Javier.

The younger man had instructed his horse into a follow then let the reins hang loose.

Too busy cleaning the dried blood from under his nails with his folding knife.

Everyone knew, that Javier had to have a _wicked_ past.

It hung around him, the claws of trauma that trap you like a cage for years.

Controls your actions, the way you process events and emotions.

The most obvious thing with Javier was the way the younger man could worm his way out of a conversation he wasn’t fond of being in.

He’d done it to Arthur a couple of times.

It was warm out and yet even when the younger man looked stifled, he never removed the fabric tied so careful and tight around his throat.

Arthur had asked one day in a roundabout way, but Javier quickly figured out the intention and managed to spin the conversation into asking Arthur if he was staying hydrated.

Arthur had insisted he was and tried to get back on topic but Javier had reached for the older man’s canteen and shook it.

Clicking his tongue when they both heard the almost-empty sloshing.

 _“You should go fill that, Arthur,”_ Javier had said, and had slipped away into the thick of camp before Arthur could wrap his head around what had just happened.

Arthur glances back again and Javier’s hands are clean.

Back to being pretty and well-manicured.

He meets Javier’s gaze and the younger man tilts his head, smiles slightly.

It doesn’t reach dark eyes.

\--

They walk out of the Sheriff’s with three-thousand grand in an oat-colored bag.

“We could get a couple o’ rooms tonight,” Arthur offers.

“If you want… I need,” Javier frowns, looks up at the older man then out to the woods in the distance.

The town all on one long street, it’s a straight shot to see the forest they’d just come from.

“We don’t gotta,” Arthur soothes.

Javier tenses slightly then moves and hoists himself into his saddle.

“There are too many,” Javier mutters.

“Too many what?” Arthur asks as he gets atop Bo’ and stuffs the money in his saddlebags.

“People,” Javier says.

Clear and crisp pronunciation, like Hosea had taught him.

To Arthur’s ears it doesn’t even sound like Javier.

“Let’s go, then,” Arthur says easily.

They sell the horse to the stable but don’t get much.

They ride into the woods, the canopy overhead casting them into shadow.

Arthur rides behind.

Watches the moonlight glint off the meticulously cleaned sliver of the blade that peeks out between sheath and hilt.

\--

“Here,” Javier says after a while and Arthur lifts his head, blinking his eyes tiredly.

“Huh?”

Javier’s head ticks to the side slightly, a dangerous, irritated movement.

“ _Here,”_ The younger man repeats and gestures to the small clearing he’s led them into.

Arthur had only known they’d gone off the trail when the horses’ hooves slipped over spring-damp leaves and not packed dirt.

“Sure,” Arthur says and buries a yawn in the crook of his elbow.

They hitch, feed and water the horses, untacking for the night.

They don’t bother pitching the tents, the night sky is clear.

Instead, they use the canvas to keep their bedrolls off the damp dirt-floor of the forest.

Javier is tense and quiet.

Visibly on-edge and only responding with bitten out syllables.

Over-enunciated English.

Arthur tries to fight the feeling that maybe he doesn’t know Javier well enough to consider the younger a friend.

A ‘brother’.

They lay tensely, a few feet between them.

Arthur’s taken off his suspenders, belts, and button-down.

Keeping his pistols close by, double-barrel not much further, just in case.

Javier hasn’t taken off anything.

Only moved one of the knives on his belt around to the front, so it wouldn’t jab into his kidney.

“I asked you earlier… But I don’t think you answered honestly,” Arthur says hesitantly.

He glances over to see Javier very obviously biting the inside of his cheek.

“You good, Javi? I mean,” Arthur rubs his hands along the edge of his blanket, awkward but sincere.

“It will pass,” Javier says quietly.

Voice softer than the last few hours.

“And when it happens again? ‘Cause that tone you’ve taken makes me think it’s happened before.”

“It will pass, then, too,” Javier insists.

Doesn’t sound all that confident.

“S’it have to do with your neck?” Arthur asks and feels the tension jump back into the younger man like God cracked a whip and the air can’t settle.

Lashed open and bleeding.

“You ain’t gotta talk, I mean, if it’s too…” Arthur trails off, wincing at his own incompetence in this situation.

“I don’t know why I thought killing would feel different here,” Javier says, carefully stringing together the words.

“As opposed to killin’ in Mexico?” Arthur asks, studying the side of the younger’s face.

“As opposed to _fighting_ … It wasn’t for money… Not really.”

“Then what was it for?”

“Liberty? A chance to… Not worry. Not worry about having to work and never getting paid _right_ ,” Javier makes a frustrated noise that Arthur feels like a vice around his own heart.

A sound that crosses language barriers.

Anguish and anger, the feeling of defeat and futility.

“Equality?” Arthur offers gently.

“Yes? No?” Javier brings a hand up and presses into his own forehead.

“You don’t gotta worry ‘bout that, now, we’ll make sure you don’t starve again.”

“I am not worried about _me_ , Arthur,” Javier says weakly.

“Ah,” Arthur turns his face back towards the stars, “Why aren’t you there then? Still fightin’?”

“I… Made a mistake,” Javier murmurs, rubs at his aching temples, “I cannot go back. I don’t even know if I am safe here.”

“We’ll keep you safe, Javi,” Arthur edges.

Javier glances over under his fingers.

“But?” The younger man asks.

“Dutch’ll need to know. You gotta explain the threat ‘fore we can fight it.”

“Okay,” Javier whispers, closes his eyes.

Feels himself sinking into the ground, sleep coming up to swallow him whole.

“Okay,” The younger man murmurs.

He sleeps.

**Author's Note:**

> because I totally needed to start another multi-chapter fic


End file.
